My eyes don’t open all at once—they fight it, like even my body knows I’m not going to like what I see.
And when I finally do manage to blink them open…
Red.
Everything is red.
Soft, dim lighting washes over the room, bleeding into the walls, the sheets, the ceiling. It’s not harsh like the auction lights. It’s low.
Almost… intimate.
My head throbs as memory starts piecing itself together. The party, the drinks, the skull mask, the stage, the bidding, ten million dollars.
My stomach twists.
And then—
The car. Getting drugged again.
“Great,” I mutter hoarsely
“Fucking great.”
My voice sounds rough.
I shift slightly—and immediately regret it.
Pain sparks in my wrists.
I freeze.
Slowly, I lift my arms.
Metal glints under the red light. Handcuffs, and they are attached to the headboard of the bed.
My pulse spikes instantly.
“What the fuck—”
I tug instinctively, but it’s useless.
Panic flares, hot and sharp in my chest.
Okay. Okay. Think.
I force myself to breathe. In. Out.
Then I notice something else. I’m not wearing the outfit anymore. No silk. No heels. No choker. Just an oversized shirt—soft, loose, slipping slightly off one shoulder—and a pair of underwear.
My stomach tightens again.
How long was I out? Did someone—
I stop the thought before it can finish.
No.
I don’t feel… different. Sore, yes. Disoriented. But not—
